


The Only Thing Unmarred Was Your Bones

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Sherlock, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rimming, psychopathic!sherlock, sexually explicit, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:19:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You asked if I had been dreaming of you. I had."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Thing Unmarred Was Your Bones

It’s pleasant, I’ve come to realise, waking up next to you. I’ve never particularly understood this fascination with sharing body heat in unconsciousness before, but I think I do now. Your presence comforts me.

When we first began sharing a bed I was concerned that my mindless body would act on buried desires and you would be repulsed, you would try to discontinue our relationship. I knew that I would be lost then, stripped bare of any sort of residual moral compass and all cognitive thought hollowed out until all that remained was instinct. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to let you leave. It has become easier to relax the more time passes however, and I am confident in my own abilities to suppress myself; the notion that a mind as great as mine could lose control over its body’s impulses is absurd, but I have not, as yet, found a method to terminate its fantasies. 

I used to keep a small knife decorated in carved elephants in my bedside cabinet; you once asked after its purpose and I replied with ‘protection’, although I feel that even you are aware it serves more for experimentation than self preservation. But since that first night when I awoke to find your exposed and delicate skin pulling my sheets taut - writhing in a way that only implied the thinness of your tissue - it has remained nestled between tinned pulses in one of our neglected kitchen cupboards. I contemplated disposing of it along with the all of the additional blades in our flat (the butter-knives exempt, of course), but for some untenable reason I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I hid it from myself in my palm as I watched my hands seal and discard the other knives I was so terrified of into the rubbish bin, running my fingernail over the intricately carved handle. I like to imagine I’m holding it, sometimes.

Days can pass where I can omit all thought of the cacophony thriving just beneath your carapace, but intermittently I find myself going almost entirely derailed at the prospect of you just beneath your flesh. Watching your pulse jump in your throat entices me; while I am quietly salivating you ask if I am thinking of the case but I am thinking of your blood rushing to the surface of your cheeks as I continue to stare at you. Vasodilation. It’s cruel, the method in which your body draws me in and then the madness of your conflicting consciousness. If only you would allow me to succumb-- I shouldn’t indulge in such reveries. You would place too much faith in me and I would not stop. 

Oh, but if only, if only.

This morning when I woke the imagery of that uncomplicated little blade resting between my fingers was already at the forefront of my mind, and my own starvation was overwhelming. You were lying beside me, brushing a hand through my curls, but at first I was hardly aware of that repetitive tickling motion. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I wanted to scream and tear at your hands until they no longer stroked, but limply sat on my frontal cortex: an uninterrupted and slowly cooling pressure over my thoughts. Instead I rolled away from your touch to face you, to busy myself with the task of examining the sunlight on your dust-coloured hair and not how easily it could be painted red.

You told me that in my sleep I had sounded lustful and desperate, that I keened for you and that I had thrashed until the bedclothes had tumbled to the floor. You asked if I had been dreaming of you. I had.

Your mind is so docile. Sometimes I find that I envy it’s simplicity, while frequently I imagine the monotony and I marvel at how you haven’t yet clawed into your skull and tore apart your brainstem until your limbs stopped twitching and you were engulfed in finality. The knife I kept is still buried between the dust and unexplored darkness, but I could find it for you if you wanted me to help. I think if I were smeared in the carnal after effects I could stare at a blank wall forever and never become restless, with you seeping into my pores. 

Within dreams there are no repercussions, and I savoured this liberating fact last night. In my mind you were sprawled underneath me, straining upwards towards the pull of my body. The stark contrast between your flushed chest and the wrinkled sheets made me want to bite at your skin, to give myself over to primal possessiveness and to hurt you. God, I needed to hurt you. I pulled your arms above your head and relished in the sensation of your faint pulse fluttering across your wrists, before gripping tightly with my fingers. I think you cried out, but whether it was in pain or urgent yearning I was unsure, so I ignored it. Your heels floundered helplessly against the duvet behind me as I ground down with my hips on top of yours, and your hands were moving so fretfully that my nails dug into your flesh, tearing faint crescents that bloomed starkly against the paleness of you. 

The control was emancipating but every cell of my being strove to be inside of you, to be immersed in your salacious heat. I leant down and bit sharply into the tendons in your neck with no hesitation and you shouted again, this time most certainly in discomfort, while my tongue lapped and sucked eagerly at the blood I had released. Almost every part of you lay limp, giving yourself over to my charge - all except your hips which continued to twist and buck beneath me, searching for more contact and pressure. I sat back and admired the tenderised skin before obliging you, allowing you to rut against me and use the sweat-slicked slide of my thigh: feverish and animalistic.

Before long I released my grasp and moved down your body; your blood underneath my fingernails was now smeared down the fold of your groin as I held your squirming form down and entered you with my tongue. The taste of you and your tightness, breached by my frantic and inquisitive muscle: It wasn’t enough. I turned my head and the knives that I had so carelessly deposited months earlier were strewn beside me, glinting dully in the dim lighting and were so very, very enticing. Returning to my position between your legs, I plucked the nearest blade with my hand, it’s familiar weight encouraging me. I lapped at your opening while I scored precise lines in your thighs, and although I couldn’t see the fissures I was scratching, I could smell the metallic piercing of the air mixed with your aroma.

Reluctantly I moved away and bowed my head to the curve of your leg, my nose just brushing the faint dusting of hairs that lingered there and inhaling the pure scent of torn blood vessels. I licked a stripe from your knee to your crotch, interrupting the slow bloom of dark red lines and catching them on my tongue. You pulled me up at this point to ram your mouth angrily into mine, and I let you taste the tang of iron and the dark tones of yourself for a moment before I pulled away, my desire almost painful in its intensity. I aligned our bodies before grasping another knife and holding it’s edge deliciously against the firm contours of your abdomen, the restraint causing my hands to shake rebelliously.

I slowly pushed in until I was fully seated, savouring your small whimpers and grunts with greed. Once I began to move, every one of your muscles seemed to quiver with tension and you threw your head back, exposing your neck. Every thrust shifted you further up the mattress and drove the knife in, little by little, until blood started pooling on the surface. I moved a trembling thumb from your hip and smeared illegible patterns across your stomach, catching my thumb on the blade in the process; now I had combined that singular essence of ourselves I felt incredibly limitless and the desire to take and take and take grew within me, threatening to pour out of every orifice. 

In one swift motion I plunged the point deep and crimson pooled onto our bedsheets, soaking the fabric and my hands. You didn’t seem to notice. Making a jagged motion with the handle caused your intestine to break out of the rupture and as I touched it I came deep inside you, covered in as much of you as I needed.

When I woke to your fingers in my hair and an arm slung trustfully over my hip, your legs tangled placidly between mine, I analysed the fierceness of my need to relay my yearning to you that I could not myself comprehend. You asked me if I had been dreaming of you and rather than replying I turned my head and thought quite boldly of intricately carved elephants, worn to the touch.


End file.
